I want to say that my trip back was, for lack of a better word, picturesque: wind blowing through my hair, cool breeze caressing my face, fresh smell of spring… but it wasn’t. In fact, I was surrounded by the smell of hot sour sweat and the stench of heat. The truck rumbled as it drove through potholes and roadkill. It’s not like this back home. I could tell what time of day it was, not specifically but I could tell if it was day or night through the crack in the door. Enough sunlight came in as to see the face of the people sitting next to me: a robust man with a five o’clock shadow, large stetson hat which he eventually took off due to the heat and a red plaid shirt with his sleeves carefully rolled up, his pant legs were rolled up as well; on my other side sat a young woman. It seemed as if hard-work, dirt and sweat had added a couple of years. Anyone else would have quickly assumed she was about forty years of age. She was always mumbling indistinctly, though I did catch on to certain phrases such as “Santa Maria” and “ruega por nosotros.” Sometimes she took a breath of two and began to mumble a “Padre Nuestro”, a catholic prayer I had learned during my stay with Manuelo’s family. His son, Obsaldo, explained to me what it meant and how that prayer had aided him during his family’s economic difficulties. Sometimes, he told me, when he lost an object that was dear to him, he would pray the Padre Nuestro halfway through. I was perplexed. He explained he directed the prayer to his grandfather, beseech him to help find the missing posession. Through out my life, I never believed in such “nonsense”, but by some miracle, Osbaldo found his lost toy car, thus finishing the prayer. I believed him. This woman’s prayer overwhelmed me. It seemed as if, now, when she’s desperate, she seeks help and forgiveness. In the corner of her eye, she noticed me observing. After quickly analyzing my blonde hair and white face, she proceeded in asking in bad accented english: “Do ju wan someting?” I flinched and turned away. Not much had to be said.
We were only few kilometers away from El Paso when the bus came to a halt. Foot steps crunched against the dirt and rocks, and the truck doors swung open. A scrawny man in a white beater and dirty baggy jeans pointed out in the open.
It had been a while since I had walked around a city. In a way, I still felt surrounded by the familiarity Manuelo’s family and friends brought me. It was a similar culture. El Paso is certainly no New York City but after a year of travel, it began to seem like it. I walked down its crowded streets, avoiding taxis and cars, trying to remind myself of crosswalks. I could feel the heat rays burning through my hair and into my scalp. My legs ached, even after a couple of hours of traveling by vehicle. In desperate search for food and rest, I stumbled upon a small motel called “Eagle’s Nest.” I smiled at the thought of the name. After extensive shackling of the doorknob and forcing the key, the room door flew open. The room was not much: a bed against its left wall with nightstand and a sink right beside it and a closet in the opposite wall. I closed the door and kept my hand on the doorknob. It had been a while since I had received this kind of hospitality, though I had no roomservice or laundry (Not that I had much clothes), I felt comfort. I let my backpack fall off my shoulders and approached the mirror infront of the sink. With a shatter on the corner and badly hung, the mirror reflected someone I hadn’t seen in a while. My hair had grown out of place, I ran my fingers through the sides and pushed the messy locks behind my ears. I had more facial hair than ever. Not that I grew much but relatively, it had grown way out of proportion. Oil, grease and dirt stains discolored my white shirt and sweat drenched my rolled up jeans. My slip ons were out of shape. At some point in my life, I had a large collection of slip ons. From the Robert Williams special edition to the Oliver Peck designs. Now, I only had one pair: the white ones. Truth is, they weren’t even white. They were marked by the dirt, mud, water and moss that had fallen on them, the rocks, falls and bumps that had cut through them. For the first time in days, I took them off. I sat myself on the edge on the bed and contemplated showering.
I turned the shower knob and water fell on me. I flinched as the heat of the water fell upon my skin. After using rivers, lakes and ocean as shower-sources, hot water had become nonexistent to me. I ran my fingers through my tangled hair and relaxed. After a long and extensive shower that ended when my neighbor banged on the door, I headed out to the closest CVS. As I walked down the aisles, I picked up everything I would use in the near future: clean clothes, shampoo, razor, soap, rice krispies and mountain dew. I threw all my spare change at the cashier and prayed that I had enough, and I did.
That night was the longest I had in years. I contemplated all the things that had occured to me during the past years, and all the changes I had undergone. Radical changes. I lay awake until sometime in the morning. I never knew how much time on could take thinking and analyzing one’s life. Sometime around 6 AM, I rolled on my side, pulled the sheets over my head and closed my heavy weary eyes.
